


A Place to Land

by vegarin



Series: The Law of Falling Bodies [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 00:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegarin/pseuds/vegarin
Summary: The three-way fight in 3x13 ends differently, and Dex deals with the fallout. A direct follow-up to The Law of Falling Bodies.





	A Place to Land

You've caught yourself in a terrible dream.

You wake up. Julie is dead. You wake up. Julie is still dead, a bullet through her head, a clean shot, through and through. Even you wouldn't have been able to do a better job. _Bravo_.

It's all gone now, the way Julie saw endless kindness in herself and others. The way she sought to do the right thing in the world. The way she smiled to herself while you watched behind the scope. The loneliness you thought you saw in her smiles. All gone, because of you. Because of what she meant to you. Because Fisk—

Because. Fisk.

You scream, scream, _scream_.

You blood sings, and since you can't bring Fisk back to life to kill him again, you hit a wall. Again. And again. It crumbles. There's blood curdling inside you. A wash of color, brilliant red and orange, splatters all over you fist.

The voices are loud. Their shrieks tell him it would be easy to end it. Life. It's resplendent in its meaninglessness. It's so easy to extinguish life in others. Easy enough in Fisk. Just as easy to extinguish in yourself. Except.

Except. Dr. Mercer. Julie. Murdock. They try so hard to make a difference in the world, to fight for what they think is right. And you wonder. Whether there's something to it after all.

You wake up. Julie is still dead.

Somehow, you are not.

And neither is Matt Murdock.

* * *

Murdock is an easy mark _._ One would assume Daredevil would be better at protecting himself, but he's wide open, vulnerable as any civilian, without any secondary defensive measure you could detect. Dressed up as a lawyer, Murdock leaves the Justice building with Franklin Nelson and Karen Page. You watch from a building across, a cup of coffee in one hand, your scope in another.

Matt Murdock walks slowly, one hand wrapped around Nelson's arm, the other around his cane, clearly favoring his right side. His steps are gingerly, careful. There's none of the gracefulness of the lithe fighting moves that you remember vividly, and he seems barely pulled together. Human bodies are, you find, unacceptably brittle.

You follow him from afar, watch him say goodbye to your friends, watch him walk home. You watch him from the building next to his place. You think he looks up at the roof you're on. You think he may see you, with whatever abilities he seems to have. Or maybe not. Because he moves on, continues on his way—only to stop.

You watch him pause and turn around, just as two—no, three men jump him from behind, dragging him into the dark opening between the buildings.

You think, _Trying to rob the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, of all people_. It's one unlucky day for street thugs. You wish for popcorn.

You watch them fight, waiting for some good old fashioned ass-kicking to be served by Daredevil. Murdock hooks his arm around one man's thigh and yanks, hard, and he stomps on him for good measure. But soon enough you notice something is wrong. There's a visible grimace on his face that has lost his usual glasses. He sways unsteadily on his feet as he tries to pull himself up.

 _Move_ , you think, gritting your teeth.

But even as Murdock manages to slams his elbow into another man's chest, the others are already on him, pinning him down before he could move fast enough to kick them off.

Your heart beats faster. _Move, goddammit._

You don't think after that. The voices are _loud_ , and your hand is moving on its accord, snatching a few pebbles strewn at your feet. When you stop to think, all three men are already going down screaming, clutching at their necks, at their legs, at their chests. When Murdock pushes himself up, the men are scrambling away from him, two of them limping and dragging the third behind.

Murdock gathers his glasses from the ground and straightens up. There's strain in his every move, tightly held in, but you could see it all, plain as day.

"Thanks," he offers, his head tilted toward where you are.

Your fingers, drumming against your thigh, start to twitch.

You leave.

* * *

On Sundays, Murdock goes to the mass in the morning, like clockwork. Sometimes Page joins him, sometimes Nelson is also with him. You see him talking to the same nun who hid him and Page. When Murdock smiles, his eyes crinkle around the edges. It's incongruent, you think. You'd never thought the Devil could smile before, or that it would have a nice smile.

Sometimes you watch the services among the crowd, sometimes you stand back far behind, a ball cap covering your head and your hands shoved in your pockets. Sometimes you're close enough to watch him murmur his prayers, and sometimes you wonder what his words are, what he's praying for. Sometimes you imagine he sees you through the crowds, but his sightless eyes always drift away.

Sometimes you hear the voices, but they're more often than not drowned out by hymns.

Every time you imagine the priest's blood staining the floor in the middle of the Church.

* * *

It's a tedious business, being a lawyer. There's a reason why you were never interested in law side of the law enforcement, and not just because you were more keen on the enforcement side of all things.

The newly-established Nelson, Murdock and Page is hard at work, protecting the downtrodden, fighting the good fight. One by one, people of the Kitchen flock to them, everyone seemingly equally and differently lost with little and big concerns that you don't give a shit about. You watch from across the street, from a café next to them, from the roof next to their dilapidated office building while Murdock runs around day and night with Nelson and Page. There are always phone calls to field, paperwork to finish, clients to help, cases to hear. Relentless and endless.

Cases pile up, and pinched looks of stress begin to surface on their faces far more often, but they still smile, laugh, and throw balls of paper at each other for no discernible reason. Coffee is their mainstay, along with foul-looking Chinese takeout from next door. You try once. It's not half bad.

You watch him go home and go to work, you watch him give money to the homeless, watch him being kind to others, watch others being kind to a blind man. Watch him taking it in stride when others treat a blind man badly. Something clenches hard in your chest at that sight, for no discernible reason.

Matt Murdock still favors his right, but slowly, less so. And for a while, Daredevil doesn't make an appearance.

* * *

Then one day, he does.

It's a usual, run-of-the-mill human trafficking ring. Murdock hears about it from one of their clients' neighbors, about some missing girls. He and Nelson argue about going after the gang: Nelson wants to get the police involved, Murdock thinks there's a mole in the police that could be tipping off the gang, Nelson doesn't think Murdock is ready for action, yada yada yada. Murdock and his impassioned speech apparently win Nelson over, because soon Daredevil is gracing the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen once again.

You watch him balance on one of the cranes overlooking the shipyard, all cat-like. You follow closely, deciding to error on the side of caution. You eventually get the primetime view of Daredevil launching into action, methodically dispatching the gang members one-by-one with carefully measured efficiency that you very much approve of. He's a fine study of kinetic energy, a long blur of interconnected movements that yield satisfying impact. He seems, if a bit stiff, mostly healed.

All goes well, except one of the rescued girls clings onto him crying, briefly distracting him, which is of course when one of the human traffickers decides to get up and try his luck one more time. Daredevil, as if to prove exactly how low he ranks on the index of self-preservation scale, absorbs the blow instead of ditching the girl. It costs him a cut across his chin, but he manages to send a kick down the man's chest and knocks him out.

He rescues everyone. He doesn't kill anyone.

You watch how the scene unfolds, chewing on a piece of pizza gone almost stale. When one of the gang gets up after Daredevil leaves, you throw a rock that crushes the man's nose. No one else gets up. You flick away pizza crumbs from your hands and walk away.

* * *

When they get the news, you're already listening in. His building has a decent roof, with a nice view of the glaring billboard sign and Murdock's living room, that you utilize as often as you feel like it.

"They _let her go_?" Murdock sounds upset.

"There wasn't enough evidence to connect her to Fisk's crimes." says Nelson, sounding more upset than Murdock himself. "At least that's what they're saying."

"Not enough eviden—" Murdock stops himself when his voice starts to rise. "She ordered Ray killed."

"The moment we leverage that knowledge, Vanessa Fisk will tell the whole wide world who you are. We can't go to public with that, and you know it. Look, we will get her another way," Nelson says so sincerely that you're not sure whether he's just naïve or dumb. "There has to be a way."

"Right. I know. Sorry, Foggy. I just thought, with Fisk gone, things would get back to—"

"Normal?" says Nelson, sardonic.

"For a start." Murdock sounds rueful. "For our given value of normal, maybe this was to be entirely expected."

"Like Poindexter stalking you?"

You think, _Huh_.

"It's not—" Murdock pauses. "I think he's been following me, yes, but I wasn't exactly sure why. I told you, he hasn't done anything yet."

"Like what? Display yet another creative weaponized use of an everyday item?"

"Among other things." There's a faint smile in Murdock's voice. "Look, I'm just telling you to be on a lookout, just in case."

"Right, and you're making him sound like a lost puppy that imprinted on you. Granted, he helped you that one time, for whatever reason, but you do recall that he's entirely psychotic, right?"

 _Can't argue with that_ , you think, rather distantly.

"He's already had enough chances to kill me, Foggy, if that's what he's really after."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? Actually, no, it does make me feel a tiny bit better that you've tamed a _mass murderer_ who's done his very best to kill you. That day at the Bulletin, he tried to kill you right in front of me. I don't," Nelson stops, pulling back. "I really don't like this. He's dangerous, Matt."

 _Mass murderer._ It has a nice ring to it, with clean, serrated edge. You almost like it.

"I haven't exactly forgotten that, Foggy. It's just—he was a gun that Fisk used. Had it not been him, it just would've been someone else."

Nelson doesn't like that answer, not really, but eventually he leaves after mothering Murdock thoroughly.

For a while, there's only silence from Murdock's apartment, until you hear: "If you want to talk, I'm here."

Your fingers start to twitch.

The last thing you want is to talk.

 _Free_ , you think. _You could be free of this_. Just walk right in, kill Murdock, and you'd be free. Of— _of all of this_. Even Daredevil can't dodge a bullet point blank. Or kill his friends. That should do the trick. He will come after you, then. There will be no question of forgiveness from him, or this vile idea of _talk_.

You’ve watched him go home and go to work, you've watched him being kind to the others, offering smiles to those who need it, the way Julie did. You've heard him laugh at Nelson's stupid jokes. You've heard him thank you for saving his life just as many times as you've tried to kill him.

You clench your hands into fists.

You leave.

* * *

Next day, Murdock is back at the Church, and you perch on one of the balconies overlooking the churchyard. It claims to offer solace, but it carries the disquiet from litanies and pleas of the people that shaped the place.

He's inside, praying, his dark head hanging over his clasped hands, all knowing full well you're right here watching.

You wonder he ever asks for forgiveness. You wonder if he regrets saving your life, the same way you wonder—if you'd only killed Murdock back at the Bulletin, hell, if you had killed him at the penthouse or at the dock, taken any one of numerous chances in between, you would've been _free_.

And Julie would still be dead.

 _Bang_ , a clean shot through a head.

You listen out for the voices.

They, for a change, remain quiet.

* * *

As far as set-ups go, you think, this is a decent one.

Felix Manning is full of holes next to Murdock, who's busy making himself a pretty target behind a taxi haphazardly parked across the narrow passage between two buildings. When you arrive at one of the buildings, Murdock is pulling his necktie loose, trying to stop Manning's bleeding while doing his best to avoid the bullets that are trying their best to find their targets. Dangling Felix Manning and his supposed evidence that could put away Vanessa Fisk for life is a masterful stroke all around, and Murdock, knowing exactly full well it was a trap, had to walk right into it.

You curse under your breath and don't think after that. You take your position behind a wall and pull the trigger. Once. Twice. Then all six in quick succession. You don't spare a single second of thought for the dropping bodies and the lives they supposedly held.

By the time you're done, Manning is no longer even twitching on the ground. You try to pull Murdock up, but he shakes his head. "Manning. Get him first." His shirt is soaked in blood, and his breathing is shallower than you'd like. It's not, you realize, all Manning's blood on his shirt.

Anger flares, sudden and hot. "Fuck Manning, he's _dead_ ," you grit out, right in Murdock's face. "If you don't move right the fuck now, I'll punch you out and then drag you outta here. Wanna try me?"

Murdock, still frantically trying to save Manning, begins to waver, maybe listening to something only he can hear, maybe to something in your voice. Either way, he stops, his face turning grim. _Hallelujah_ , you think. You grab him by the shoulders and pull him up toward the closest fire escape.

"No," he says, one arm shooting out to block your way.

"Seriously, you _really_ want to test me?"

"No," he says, impatient, "the other way. More men are coming." He points to the opposite direction and starts climbing up the other side of the building, without waiting for you to follow.

You don't ask questions. You follow.

By the time you reach his apartment, his breathing has evened out a little, but his hand that opens his rooftop window to let you in still shakes a little, his footing unsteady. You shove your hands back into your pockets to stop yourself from offering to help.

"So, this is where the Devil lives," you say instead. You've wondered before, what it would look like from inside. It's underwhelming.

Murdock sheds his jacket on his couch. "Impressed?"

"Well, it's—" you start, without knowing how you intend to finish.

"A dump?" Matt supplies. There's dry amusement in his voice, and you don't know why, even though that's exactly the word you'd choose to describe it.

You shrug, only to realize you're not quite sure exactly how Matt's abilities to work—whether he could even actually see your shrug or what. You say, "Could do with some decoration."

"Would be wasted on me," he says, lifting his hand to gesture at his eyes. "Blind."

You manage to hold back a snort. Not knowing what to do with yourself, you sit on the couch and watch as Matt opens a cabinet for a first-aid kit and grabs a clean shirt all without looking.

When he peels off his bloodied shirt, his torso is a patchwork of fine, delicate lines. You imagine you can see your handiwork. Here and there, in a long line of scar near the fresh wound where a bullet cut perilously close. And along the stab wound on the shoulder, in the still-fading bruise in his chest, over where his heart should be.

"Man, how are you still _alive_?" you blurt out, without thinking.

Something about your question seems to take him off guard. "I've had worse," Matt says after a pause, which isn't exactly an answer. "By you, even," he adds.

He's said it lightly, but the words twist in your gut and settle in a wrong way. You don't know what your expression is like, or how he could even tell, but he hastens to add, "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, sure," you say, disbelieving.

He smiles, just a little and entirely self-deprecating, like he knows no one's buying the bullshit he's selling. His eyes can't quite meet yours, only directed to somewhere on your face, but it feels like they can still see through you. It's disconcerting.

"He's right, y'know." Your fingers, flayed on your knee, drum listlessly. Matt's head tilts, asking a question. "Your friend. Nelson. He's right. I'm dangerous."

"Clearly," Matt agrees, almost half-heartedly. "Pass me that, please?"

You realize, a moment too late, that he's become Matt, no longer Murdock or Daredevil, and that somehow, it feels right, _fitting_. You pass along the gauze from the first-aid kit, which obviously sees a lot of use, and watch him patch himself up. You don't trust yourself enough, so you don't offer to help.

"So, they let Vanessa Fisk go, huh?" you ask, when he's about done.

You like the way his jaw tightens when he answers, "Yes."

"She knows who you are."

"Yes."

"And Manning, the crucial witness to her culpability in all of Fisk's work, is dead."

"Yes."

You wonder how far you can push. "Want me to kill her?"

In the middle of buttoning up his shirt, Matt immediately tenses up.

"Man, the look on your face." You shake your head, halfway given into laughter. "But seriously? Don't you want her to go away? I can make it happen."

Matt's face is hard, as hard as you've seen it. "I don't want to kill anyone. I don't want _you_ to kill anyone."

"Why the hell not?" you demand, genuinely, intensely frustrated. "What's so wrong with it, huh? This"—you point at Matt—"is her doing. She's a rattlesnake. She won't stop until you're dead."

"I can take care of myself," he says, crossing his arms.

" _Clearly_ ," you say, equally pig-headed.

One corner of Matt's lips quirks up, as if conceding the point. He shakes his head and runs a hand down his face. "Look, what is it you want? Do you really want her dead?"

"Yes," you answer, thinking, _Duh_.

"You wanted me dead once, too."

That effectively stops you in your tracks.

"Many times, in fact," he points out, a full-on logical lawyer mode. "I was also there for all those memorable occasions, so I remember. You wanted to kill me, but you didn't, and you don't want to do it now. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here. _We_ wouldn't be here. Something's stopping you."

There's a quick, easy answer to that. _Yes_ , you think, _you_. _You are what's stopping me now_.

Your fingers start to twitch. He's the one that still holds you back. You can cut it off. Cut him off. Cut off this, this _tether_. And you'd be free from— _all of it._

Life, you remember, is so easy to extinguish.

The voices are louder. Louder than he ever remembers.

"Your friend is right," you say, getting up. "I _am_ dangerous."

Matt Murdock doesn't back down. "So am I."

Not that you expect the Devil of Hell's kitchen to know when to back down. You like this. Your blood sings. "Right now, all you are is an easy mark." You take a step forward. And two. "And all I want is being free from _all of this_."

"Then why not kill me?" he dares, also on his feet. "If all you want is to be free?"

"You really do this, don't you?" You laugh. It's hysterical. Of all the people in the world, you really know how to pick 'em. "Consistently, perpetually, going out of your way to put yourself in fucking danger. You really do have a death wish."

You don't think after that. When you push him, he already has sensed it coming and pulled his arms up, but it's so woefully inadequate. You catch his arms and slam him all the way against the wall. He's wincing, and _close quarters_ , you tell yourself. Daredevil always has an upper hand in hand-to-hand combat, he's simply just better at it than you, but you look at Matt now, sweat curling his dark hair in a tangled mess, the pain he must feel in his chest held in tight in the way you've learned to recognize, and you know—you _know_ you can do it.

He has a thin wrist, you think. Thinner than one would expect. You can press in harder until it gives. You can. You already know what he sounds like when he's in pain. You already know what it feels like, crushing his windpipe.

"If all you want is to be free from everything, then why are you looking for another Wilson Fisk? Someone who will give you permission to kill?" he asks, and you suddenly come to a stop. Matt, with his wrist in your grasp, is still calm, unsettlingly so. "I’m not another Fisk," he says, resolute. "I won't be."

No, of course not. He's no Fisk. He just _is_. You wonder what it would be like, to hear his last breath and know for certainty that there won't be Matt Murdock in life, in living, with only his voices left.

It will never be sufficient, you think. This will not shut him up. He won't bend, not in the way that matters. It will _never shut him down._

Just like—Dr. Mercer. Like Julie.

"Why did you not stop me, before?" you ask, abruptly. "You knew I was there. You knew I was watching. You've always known."

He meets your eyes, sensing a change, and blindly, steadily and quietly searching. You wonder what he sees. You wonder about the color of the ocean that he remembers.

"I didn't want to leave you alone with your voices," he tells you, unexpectedly, unbearably—gentle.

Something breaks, irrevocable, somewhere inside you. You can hear it crack. You can feel it.

There are no voices.

"You're bleeding," you say, feeling numb. The bandage on his chest is ripped open, dyeing his shirt red. Again. You loosen your grip on him. Drop his wrist. It's too painful to hold onto him.

He hasn't even noticed that the stitches barely holding his chest together are coming undone, and seemingly surprised that you have. "It's nothing," says Matt. "It's—"

"Fine?" You take a step back. And two.

"Dex," he says, reaching out, but you wrench his hand free. You can't read his voice. Or the look on his face. It seems—concerned, you think. But that's nonsensical. _Absurd_. It's excruciating.

 _Mass murderer_ , you recall. It has a nice ring to it.

You take another step back. And two. And another, and you're moving, and running, and running, until you're away. Until you're safe.

Until he's safe.

**Author's Note:**

> For the last few weeks, I tried and tried to make this story work, but it came together semi-coherently only after hearing about the cancellation and I got sad. :(


End file.
